


On the Morning will be Frost

by Cryptiid000



Category: Doom (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Disabilities, Eventual Smut, F/M, Impaired Vision, Prophecy, Prophetic Visions, Slow Burn, We found love in a hopeless place, no beta we die like men, non-canon, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:28:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24582322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptiid000/pseuds/Cryptiid000
Summary: She is small, so small, in the snow. Barely noticeable if not for the smattering of bright red blood around her crumpled body. Her skin and hair- as white as a sheet of copy paper- blended into the snow pillowed around her. When he crouches next to her body and shifts his hands under her tiny frame he gets no resistance. It's as if she weighs nothing. Gently he rolls her body over into his arms, cradled like a babe. Her eyes are half parted open in her unconciousness.They are red and deep as wine.---In which the Celestial Locator isn't a thing, and instead The Slayer must find and work with an Oracle.
Relationships: Doom Slayer | Doomguy/Original Character(s), doom slayer | doomguy / female oc
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	On the Morning will be Frost

"To locate the two remaining Hell Priests we will need to find an Oracle." Vega's voice was simple and concise in The Slayer's ear. Before him the map of Earth's surface, ever rotating, swirled to show a few red markers spanning across the continents. "All but one are now dead-" The sphere swirled again, then zoomed in onto the country of Russia. The Slayer felt an old tinge of an American grudge at the back of his brain, but still gave no response. He hardly remembered those days anyways. 

"Surviving one hundred and thirty miles north-" Vega continued, zooming in the map. "Of the city Penza. Remote satellites show little demonic invasion until recent weeks. I'd suggest you fetch her now while there is time left." 

He's an A.I., and yet, The Slayer cannot help but give a little humanity to the disembodied voice. He seems to chide the marine sometimes, almost teasingly, and with a lilted tone to his simulated voice. There's no capacity for emotion in those circuits but shit, stranger things have happened. Maybe this apocalypse has overshadowed other achievements in the physical world. It's a fleeting thought as The Slayer braces himself for the portal at the end of the runway. The rails prop up, the computer consoles slide away, and without another pause he runs and leaps into the vortex of energies. 

"Take care, Slayer." Vega bids in farewell. 

On the other side it's total silence. He stands at the edge of a small town or village, snow powdering the ground under his heavy boots and the smell of burning rubber in the air. Before him is a long stretch of forested highway, the trees taller than most he'd seen before, and behind him were wrecked cars and pieces of bodies strewn on the ground. Old blood caked in half-dried, brown puddles at his feet. Crows scattered upon his movement. What a warm welcome.   
  
"You are five miles from the Oracle's location." His helm buzzed as the A.I. worked out the technical details, then a waymarker appeared in his vision just like the sight on a rifle. Point and shoot. The Slayer began in a well-paced jog that had been engrained in his body many, many centuries ago. His Shotgun held at his chest, his chin up high. The snow crunched with every heavy footfall to break the unending silence around him. Not a soul surviving. For a long while he carried on like that. A few times he passed more ruined cars, more old bodies. It seemed like a force of demons had simply mowed through only intending to kill. The Slayer felt his blood boil. Demons only care about one thing; bloodshed. Eventually he did come to a break in the road where another village lay, this one seemingly more freshly ruined and some screams could be heard over the few sparse buildings. None of them were human.   
  
"You are one mile from the Oracle's location." And the Waypoint did not guide him into the village, so he left it be. No survivors, most likely.   
  
At last he came to a dirt driveway that branched off the side of the road. He followed it deep into the thicket of the woods. No underbrush- only those same tall, imposing trees. It ended at a property that lay in shambles; the two cars there were absolutely destroyed, one halfway through the fenceline and still fizzing steam. The house had every window broken, even on the second story, and the entire left side was caved in like something had exploded from within. The Slayer stepped confidently up to the porch where, torn in half, was a dog. A family pet. It's collar shined to him a silver tag that read 'Sputnik'.   
  
The scream of an imp was the only warning he had before the creature launched it's self at him. Lucky for him, or perhaps unlucky for it, his reflexes were just as fast and it's head was blown to pieces by his shotgun a second later. Of course, that altered the horde. A dozen or so more crawled out from every crack and crevice of the home, fire was flung in his direction, screams bounced around in his helm. One by one they were exterminated- child's play to him. But the roar of a knight was something to pay mind to.   
  
The demon rounded the house and spotted him. The Slayer ducked out of the way, firing round after round of sticky bombs as accurately as possible into it's ugly head. Each one left more flesh missing. A stray round landed in the house and shook it to it's old core, the ancient wood groaning and trembling. The knight followed The Slayer inside as he ducked among the unfamiliar hallways and domestic debris. In the stairwell was a dead woman, she vanished into the basement as the knight pursued him. Out the back door the Slayer went, and as the knight burst through the thresh-hold the building finally gave up and collapsed, stunning it momentarily. The Slayer used his opportunity and with one final burst of sound and light the knight's head properly exploded.   
  
One down, another to go- because as The Slayer turned around he came to face a hulking mancubus, and it looks pissed. Quickly his feet carried him through the snow, bounding across the back lawn as swiftly as he could to avoid the large bursts of fire that swept after him. One arm was crippled quickly. He scaled the edge of a shredded stone cliffside, then used the height to scope and take out the other. Finally, The Slayer leapt from his perch and landed his quickly-drawn chainsaw into the demons head. Blood and gore sprayed over his form but quickly sloughed off. The gurgling the Mancubus gave as it fell dying made him smile ever so slightly behind his visor. Fucking fat ass.   
  
"You are two hundred feet from the Oracle's loaction." The Waypoint dinged in his vision cheerily just up the hill, and The Slayer followed.   
  
It led him to the entrance of what seemed to be a bunker. Two steel doors greeted him- one dented and the other clearly broken inwards and hangin by it's hinges. Cautiously he descended the steps, each movement now suddenly muffled and closed in by the lack of space. The hallway down was narrow and led to another set of steel doors that were also broken, and they gave way to the heart of the bunker.   
  
The floor, walls and ceiling were smooth concrete. To right were three sets of shelves, all packed full with canned goods, dry foods, rations, MRE's and bottled water. Just beyond them was a steel case left ajar full to the brim with ammunition and a few stowed away rifles. Then, to his left, a cot and a desk. The desk held a computer stuck without connection and mountains of newspapers. Pages were strewn on the ground, files of them fallen and flung about. The cot was in disarray as well. What caught his attention, however, was the mural of Russian words written in... ash? Charcoal? Something dry and smudged. All of it was unreadable to him, as he didn't speak nor read the language, but what he did understand was one single word written far larger than any other;

**DOOM SLAYER**

"Shall I translate for you?" Vega asked politely. The Slayer shook his head. "You are one hundred feet from the Oracle's location." One hundred? There's no way this bunker is that long. Not with how cramped the current space is- or maybe he's just that goddamn tall. The dry croak of a demon caused The Slayer's head to whip forward again. At the end of the room was an open door, and just beyond a lesser demon. Still mostly humanoid, wearing it's former clothes and posessing hair. A zombie. A The Slayer approached the shambling figure turned it's hellish red eyes on him. An older man. The Slayer blasted it's head off without a second thought.   
  
In the room was a bunker-style toilet. A mostly empty rack held three remaining rolls of toilet paper. But what caught The Slayer's eye was the small steel door just behind it. It only took one shove with his hand to move the rack out of the way, then pry the door open and look up. A tunnel shot straight to the surface- a steel ladder. The Slayer grumbled. Small, but he can fit. Blood was pooled at the floor. He hurried up the rungs to escape the closed-in space and resurfaced again in the snow where there was more. Bright red, melting the snow, and fresh. He looked a few steps further, following the trail, and at last he found the source.  
  
A girl.   
  


Quickly he hurries to her. She is small, so small, in the snow. Barely noticeable if not for the smattering of bright red blood around her crumpled body. Her skin and hair- as white as a sheet of copy paper- blended into the snow pillowed around. When he crouches next to her body and shifts his hands under her tiny frame he gets no resistance. It's as if she weighs nothing. Gently he rolls the body over into his arms, cradled like a babe. Her eyes are half parted open in her unconciousness. 

They are red and deep as wine. 

"The Oracle is alive but has lost consciousness due to blood loss." The Slayer idetifies a huge gash running diagonal along her right forearm. Main arteries must have been severed- perhaps by the zombie demon in the bunker. "Porting back to The Fortress now." The world around him warms and warps, there is a rush of energy, and he's once again standing at his Fortress helm.   
  
"You must get the Oracle to the medical bay immediately." The most unused portion of the fortress he can think of. No need when the only occupant is an immortal demigod impervious to mortal injury. He rushes to the designated area, Vega prepping the way for him with each step, and the doors slide open as if they'd been used yesterday.   
  
Everything is white and sterile. There are no smells- just clinical white light. A recovery table lowers down to his height and he lays the female onto it, head pillowed on a crest of soft silicone. Immediately the machine pulls her away and jumps into action. 

From the ceiling many mechanical arms appear. Three swiftly cut away her remaining clothes- just a tank top and underwear- and mist her with some liquid solution, then wipe her down. Another two take her uninjued arm and insert an IV. A saline bag appears to begin a drip. Two more take her profusely bleeding arm and raise it up high above her body. The blood is so free flowing it had already left a small pool on the cot. It drips off onto the ground, more viscous and dark than it should be. The mist sprays down her arm, another holds a flat cloth to the gashes (there are four that he can see, with mangled flesh hanging off in bits), and another with a more precise, unidentifiable tool waits patiently. As the cloth drags down to staunch the bleeding, the other holds a clamp on her upper arm, blocking the blood flow. The tooled arm does something he can't see within the intricacies of her forearm. There is the sound of singing, whirring, pulling and the wet squelch of muscle and skin. The tooled hand retracts, the cloth is replaced. Now the tool rotates or switches gears or... something. As the cloth drags down again a clear blue beam of light shoots the skin, now being pushed together by yet another arm. The blue light seems to be cauterizing the skin, pulling it back together by scabbing. The process repeats on the other three gashes. The girl is misted and wiped clean again, then the arm is stinted and bandaged with clean white fabric. Any remaining blood is cleared away, her eyes are moisturized and pushed closed, and the final touch is a woolen blanket laid neatly over her form.   
  
"Proceedure complete." The bed lowers back down to his waistline. The girl looks frightfully young, her features soft and serene, the white skin making her appear as if she were dead. "The Oracle is stable, but in critical recovery. Induced rest will prolong for twelve hours unless she does not improve- but already her vital signs are beginning to return to normal." Good. The Slayer can't take a failure, but he can take a close call. Vega then projects some information before him. 

"The Oracle is identified as Sasha Blasokova. Age eighteen, nationality Russian, majorly caucasian. Suffers from albanism-" That explains the white skin and hair. "And vision impairment. The appearance of her eyes is not attributed to albanism, but rather seems to be a side-effect of her acute psychic abilities. Minor scans of her nervous function shows a psychically active brain." Diagrams and pictures of the inside of the girl's head appear. He can't really decipher much, to be honest, but it's good confirmation that she's the one they're after. The Slayer looks away from the projections back to the girl's face. Her chest rises and falls peacefully beneath the heated blanket. Curiously he reaches out, curling one lock of her straight white hair in his finger. It slips away like a silk ribbon. "Signs of starvation are also apparent. Nutrition will be administered via IV until she has regained conciousness. Shall I alert you when she does?"

To that The Slayer gave a chaste nod, then left the medical bed. He had time to waste, now. The lights dimmed as he exited the room and the doors shut securely behind him. 

White hair, red eyes. Just like Daisy.

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to write this on a whim, lmk if you guys like it!


End file.
